


Vocatus

by hardtostarboard



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Trespasser, Tags May Change, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-07 16:19:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7721566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardtostarboard/pseuds/hardtostarboard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins with a moonlight visit by the former Inquisitor to his Tevinter lover, but when an unexpected guest arrives, it heralds the start of a new adventure that will take them across Thedas.</p><p>Post-Canon, Post-Trespasser. Will contain SPOILERS for Dragon Age: Inquisition, Trespasser DLC, Jaws of Hakkon DLC, The Descent DLC, Dragon Age 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Primus

It had been three months since the official disbanding of the Inquisition, since Inquisitor Mahanon had sacrificed his arm for the sake of his life and thrown down his final solution at the feet of the dignitaries and leaders gathered for the Exalted Council. Stories about what had happened there had quickly grown far out of proportion from the real events, with so much of the truth of it missing that large gaps were left to be filled in by speculation too gossip-worthy to be ignored. For those who had been involved, the truth was considered best kept a secret, and none of them had come forward to correct the rumours. Besides, who would believe them?  
  
Tevinter was far from the Winter Palace, and the streets of Minrathous were bustling even at a late hour, unheeding of the war edging its way closer to the borders of the Imperium. Between the crowds, a slight figure in a dark cloak slipped equally as unnoticed. Stealing up a side-street, they checked back and forth before pushing open the servants entrance to a grand mansion, disappearing inside.  
  
In the darkness of the empty kitchen, former Inquisitor Mahanon Lavellan pushed back his hood and rubbed his hand over his face. There was no easy way to get into Minrathous these days, particularly for an elf, and he had barely been able to send word ahead to ensure that he would be expected. That the door behind him had been opened was not quite a fluke, and he would have to thank Leliana for ensuring it when he returned.  
  
He took a few moments to calm himself, to straighten his hair and clothing and make himself altogether more presentable, before he entered the house proper and traced well-known hallways to the grand staircase that led to the upper rooms. Dorian was a creature of habit and rarely moved quarters as some of his standing were prone to doing, and it was with some satisfaction that he found the bedroom door slightly ajar. Leliana’s agents, again, or simply Dorian’s carelessness? He couldn’t truly say, having suspicions towards the latter, but he flexed his fingers once and pushed gently against the door, smiling as it swung open soundlessly.  
  
“Magister Pavus?” he whispered into the silence, fingers at his lips with an amused smile behind them as he heard a low groan of complaint in response, with the rustling of - if he remembered correctly - silk sheets. Dorian had never been much of a morning person,. How he managed to spend all day preaching to the Magisterium, Mahanon would never know. The elf felt a fond warmth curl in his chest, and he stepped into the bedroom, pushing the door closed behind him. In the direction of the bed, all movement and sound ceased. He heard the subtle shudder in the carefully indrawn breath and realised, very suddenly, what his entrance must look like.  
  
“ _ Dorian _ , Dorian, it’s me.”  
  
A candle flared to life with a brief movement of his hand and the scene before him was cast into a relief of dim orange light and fuzzy-edged shadows. Dorian was half-sitting up in bed, a picture of sleep-ruffled dishevelment with his eyes widened, hand already reaching for the staff propped by the headboard. His gaze fell on Mahanon and his expression shifted quickly from shock to annoyance, tinged with the kind of care and telling look that always came before a lecture.  
  
“What in the Maker’s name do you think you’re doing?” he hissed. “You aren’t supposed to be here until morning. If I hadn’t been almost sure I knew your voice, I could have killed you.”  
  
Mahanon arranged his face to look suitably chastised and didn’t move from his spot by the door. A few moments passed before the haughty glare smoothed from Dorian’s face and he held out a hand to beckon his lover to him. Their fingers touched, tangled together, and their lips met in a crush of soft warmth and mingled scents. Dorian tasted like liquor, and it was with that in mind that the elf shifted back and shifted his weight.  
  
“You’ve been drinking again,” he said, not accusatory but still enough to have Dorian casting his eyes offside in what could have been shame on any other man. “You promised me--”  
  
“I _ promised _ I wouldn’t drink myself into a stupor, and I didn’t. Cross my heart.” He made the motion, and perhaps it was how much Mahanon wanted to believe him that pushed the doubt back to the furthest reaches of his mind. Dorian kissed his fingers. “I had two glasses of some  _ dreadful _ Fereldan swill that they were attempting to call brandy, and that’s all. I think it’s come into fashion specifically for the purpose of developing facial muscle control, with the effort it takes not to grimace."  
  
The elf huffed a breath out through his nose, shoving down the feeling of disappointment but not before it was seen written all over his face.  
  
“I _ swear _ , amatus. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is deceive you.” Their eyes met, a slow smile crept its way over the elf’s face, and Dorian’s shoulders relaxed as he drew his lover into a warm embrace. “I’m to take it that I’m forgiven, then?”  
  
“Yes,” Mahanon sighed into his shoulder, resting his forehead there and closing his eyes. He remembered the first time he had confronted Dorian about how much he drank and how habitually he drove himself to black out or close enough to it and how _ angry _ Dorian had been that such a thing was being called into question. He’d threatened to leave the Inquisition. He’d been told that maybe he  _ should _ . They had almost come to blows in the middle of the library before the Tevinter mage had stormed off.  
  
He had shown up several hours later, grudgingly sober, and apologised. It wasn’t the last time they would have that same argument or that those same bitter words would leave the elf’s mouth, but in time, their frequency had lessened, and Mahanon had turned his efforts more towards helping Dorian through the problem than scolding him for it.  
  
“Mm, good, but I don’t know how much I’ve forgiven _ you _ yet for appearing in my room at such an unsociable hour. I’m not getting out of bed just because it’s more convenient for you to show up in the middle of the night.”  
  
“Believe me, I wish it wasn’t,” the elf sighed, taking that as his cue to sit up and begin removing his boots. Dorian watched, head tilted, as Mahanon deftly unfastened the straps and laces with his one hand. “And I didn’t mean to stay away for so long, but it’s getting harder for someone like me to get into Tevinter since the elves started disappearing. I had to ask Leliana to pull a few strings along the way before I could reach Minrathous at all.”  
  
“I knew it was getting difficult,” Dorian said, wordlessly offering his help in small gesture and shifting close when he received a nod of assent. “The threat of a _ real  _ Qunari invasion is becoming an ubiquitous influence over the Imperium.” He assisted the other man out of his coat and shirt with as little interference as possible, leaving him to handle his breeches and smalls before was being welcomed into the warmth of the bed. “And there’s no such thing as  _ too careful _ at the moment when it comes to strange elves.”  
  
The last words sounded sour, and Mahanon chuckled. He tucked himself up against Dorian’s side and rested his arm across the man’s chest, thumbing over the smooth skin of his collarbone. “I could have used my position, such as it is, but I didn’t want to cause a scene.”  
  
“That’s probably for the best,” came the airy reply, fingers touching his hair and the tip of one pointed ear. “Arriving here with the kind of fanfare that the Magisterium would _ love _ to arrange for you would just draw far too much attention, and I like having you all to myself.”  
  
“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.”  
  
“Not about the last part, certainly.”  
  
The elf laughed, then hummed softly as Dorian’s arm gently squeezed around him. Few elves in Tevinter could feel as safe as he did at that moment, curled in the arms of the man who loved him and utterly at peace for the first time in months. It made the long journey more than worth it and even if the streets outside posed their dangers, at least here, he could finally get a good night’s rest.  
  
They slept, and the morning brought a slow and languid waking peppered with soft kisses and murmured, loving words. Mahanon looked into Dorian’s eyes and saw the devotion there, felt it in every touch as they got to know each others bodies again. He urged his lover over onto his back and slid a knee up between his thighs, feeling the hitch in narrow supple hips as eyelids fell closed, and he knew that nothing, not even saving the world, could be better than this.  
  
“ _ Maker _ , I missed you,” Dorian breathed in a brief moment that their lips parted. Mahanon smiled and covered his mouth with his again, the kiss warm and deep, fingers buried in each others hair and bodies pressed close. He could forget so many past hurts like this, the disbalance caused by his missing hand and forearm the only reminder.  
  
Hours could have been passed in such a way, if not for a sudden crash and scream from downstairs. Dorian bolted upright, almost headbutting his elven lover in the process, and the two of them scrambled into their breeches before they darted from the room. At the top of the stairs, Dorian threw his arm out to hold Mahanon back. The front door was standing wide open, and in the doorway a hooded stranger with a rough, deep voice was arguing with the servant who had had the misfortune to answer.  
  
Under the hood, the head lifted, eyes flashing under the shadow cast by the fabric. One bare foot shifted forwards, and out of the corner of his eye Mahanon saw Dorian’s fist clench, heat already building between his curled fingers. Taking in the scene, he watched the servant take several steps back, hands lifted, fearful of the two handed sword in the other person’s grip despite the way the blade dipped low to the floor. They lacked the strength to lift it, Mahanon realised, absorbing that fact along with the darkened patches on the cloak, the dark red smudges on the bare feet...  
  
He brought up his hand to stay Dorian’s defensive spell. “Wait,” he said, and trusting him, Dorian slowly uncurled his fingers, dispelling the fire building there. The stranger in the entrance hall swayed on his feet, using his greatsword in a valiant effort to hold himself up until a minute shift in weight had the tip shifting, screeching across the floor, scoring a deep groove into the tiling and sending its bearer to the ground. Only then did Mahanon rush forwards, his lover on his heels, and the two of them crouched by the unconscious stranger while the servant looked on, wide-eyed.  
  
“Who is it?” The question was asked in a low voice as the mages exchanged glances, and Dorian shook his head.  
  
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen-- Wait.. what’s that…” With one finger, he moved the fabric of the cloak back and Mahanon drew in a sharp breath.  
  
The stranger’s undeniable identity was laid out on his skin in winding, creamy marks scarred into the flesh. Even Dorian seemed to recognise it, a hiss pulled in through his teeth as he let go of the fabric like it burned. Mahanon only shook his head and nudged the hood back further to find a straight, proud nose, high cheekbones and hair white as moonlight falling around pointed ears. He knew this elf, though they had never met. Everyone who knew the slightest bit about the Champion of Kirkwall knew this elf.  
  
“It’s _ Fenris. _ ”


	2. Secundus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So,” said Dorian. “What I’m understanding here is that Hawke is really missing, Weisshaupt Fortress has cut off all communication for no reason that is immediately apparent, you have been merrily slaughtering Tevinters the entire way here and for some reason you think we can help you?”

“I see you have no shortage of slaves, _magister_.”

After Dorian’s disbelief had been mollified (‘ _Hawke’s_ Fenris?’, he’d said, as if he had any reason to doubt Mahanon’s word on the matter), they had moved Fenris between the three of them and laid him out on one of the plush couches in a secondary reception room. The servant had left to fetch them shirts without prompting, and it didn’t take long for the white-haired elf to stir.

His comment was made as the young servant offered him a glass of water, her soft ‘oh’ and quick glance at Dorian prompting the Tevinter mage to sigh.

“Personally, I prefer to call them servants. I pay them quite well.” Being under his employment was a much-desired thing in Minrathous. The first thing he had done upon tying up affairs in Qarinus and moving to the capital was make a point of _hiring_ a number of people - humans and elves alike - to work in his new residence. “I know their names and everything. This is Senna Novius, I believe she’s from… Vol Dorma, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ser.” Senna smiled as a pink flush rose on her cheeks, and she curtseyed before leaving them. With a sour expression, Fenris sipped at the water and lifted a hand to rub a smudge of blood from the top of his jaw. They had asked him nothing yet and he had volunteered nothing, and Mahanon had not yet shaken the surrealism of having the other elf sat in front of him. For all he could have imagined after hearing descriptions of the lyrium markings on Fenris’ skin, he hadn’t expected them to look so… fresh.

“I.. apologise,” Fenris said, sincere if somewhat grudging. He set the glass down delicately and clasped his hands together.

“Quite alright!” replied Dorian with a forced cheer that had Mahanon gently elbowing his ribs. “I didn’t think you came all this way to waltz into my house and insult me. Should I feel privileged?”

Despite the acridity of the comment, Fenris chuckled flatly. “I was hunting a group of slavers across the Valarian Fields when I heard a guard patrol mention the Inquisitor’s arrival in Minrathous,” he said, and he must have registered the expression of momentary surprise on Mahanon’s face, because he faintly smirked and shook his head. Something like that was bound to be a source of gossip, and Mahanon wasn’t sure why he was taken aback by hearing it.

“I approached them to ask about you--...”

“Not smart,” Dorian quipped.

“... No. I haven’t been… thinking clearly.”

“What do you need me for?” Politeness overruled by his mixed curiosity and impatience, Mahanon leaned forwards with his elbow resting on one knee and fixed the other elf with an intent stare. Fenris shifted, momentarily uncomfortable, and breathed out a sigh. “You can’t have gone to this kind of trouble just to say hello.”

“I need your help.” The words sounded like they stuck in Fenris’ throat, winding around pride that tried to drag them down before they could be given voice. He sighed again and touched one finger to the edge of the glass in front of him, sending a droplet streaking through the condensation to pool on the table. “Do not misunderstand me, I didn’t intentionally track you here, but when I heard--”

“Do you always take this long to get to the point?” Interrupting again, Dorian was rewarded with another, sharper jab of his lover’s elbow between two of his ribs and he threw his hands up in barely veiled disgust, moving away from them to converse with Senna as she tended the fire. Fenris watched him for a moment, then glanced at his remaining companion.

“ _Mages_ ,” he said, and Mahanon couldn’t help his wry smile, knowing full well that he was not the only elf in the room who had taken a human mage for a lover. Dorian’s absence, however, appeared to settle Fenris and he even smiled faintly in response.

“Hawke is missing.”

“Isn’t Hawke usually some level of ‘missing’?” After the battle in Kirkwall and the destruction of the chantry there, Hawke had become more and more reclusive. Since their trip into the Fade, Mahanon had only heard from him once or twice. Fenris, though, shook his head and his brow furrowed slightly.

“Not like this. Even in the worst times… I have been able to keep in contact with him. We had arranged to meet in a tavern in Nessum. He was continuing to Weisshaupt from there, but he never arrived.” Now speaking plainly of his lover, Fenris’ expression shifted to something more open and easily read, filled with worry. Briefly, Mahanon wondered if it was simply a quality of those who came from Tevinter. Dorian had once told him that the people of his country cared very deeply about everything, that passion ran in their blood as deeply as magic, and he had not yet seen any evidence against it. “I would have investigated the fortress myself, but…”

“You had a bad feeling,” Mahanon murmured, and Fenris nodded.

“Something has happened there. The silence of the Wardens in the High Reaches can’t be a symptom of nothing. When I heard that you were here, I…” He sighed again. “I hoped that you would be able to help.” Since the Rift, many Grey Wardens had put themselves forwards to help with rebuilding and supply efforts, proving - at least to Mahanon’s mind - that retaining them had been the better idea over banishment. The silence around Weisshaupt, though, had been almost instant and coincided strangely with Hawke’s disappearance. Varric had not been wrong when he had commented that it was the kind of worrying lack of communication that always followed the Champion of Kirkwall and his constant entourage of trouble.

“None of that explains what you were doing in the Valarian Fields,” Mahanon said after a moment of thought. Fenris gave him a grim look.

“Hunting Tevinter slavers is a potent distraction, Lavellan. I suggest trying it.”

When Dorian had been invited to rejoin them and had been brought up to speed on the situation, he sat for several minutes in contemplative silence while the fire crackled in the background. Fenris sipped his water and gathered his strength as he sat quietly, eyes darting up as the magister finally cleared his throat.

“So,” said Dorian. “What I’m understanding here is that Hawke is _really_ missing, Weisshaupt Fortress has cut off _all_ communication for no reason that is immediately apparent, _you_ have been merrily slaughtering Tevinters the entire way here and for some reason you think _we_ can help you?”

“You can’t possibly be too angry about the loss of a few slavers, Dorian,” the elven rogue muttered, and Dorian stared at him in disbelief for a few beats, clearly biting back the urge to say _something_. Mahanon met his eyes with a challenge in his own, and he knew that this was something they would be discussing later. For now, though, Dorian backed down with a muted sneer of aggravation and held both hands up, palms out in a gesture of peace that was at least halfway genuine.

“We still have some contacts. Disbanding the Inquisition didn’t rid us of the friends we’d gained, only the official alliances.” They would have to be careful, but prodding into what could have happened at Weisshaupt without trying to get there through the mountains sounded the more sensible option. Mahanon was barely in the right physical condition to trudge through a mountain pass clogged with snow to reach a fortress that could be full of demons.

Dorian managed to convey his level of irritation at this entire situation in one sharply exhaled breath. “If you’re really going to be set on this, I have a good friend in the Imperial Senate who might be able to lend us some extra help. She’s a powerful magister and _very_ useful political ally. I think you’ll get along marvellously.”


	3. Tertius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’d been wondering when you were going to get around to introducing me to your devoted lover.” She glanced to Mahanon and in a conspiratorial stage-whisper, added. “I think he believes your visits to be a well-guarded secret.”

Fenris was resting by the time Dorian’s ally arrived, the effects of being knocked about by the guard patrol and then the subsequent run to Minrathous itself showing not long after their conversation had devolved into small talk. He grew tired and irritated being visibly so, and at Mahanon’s suggestion a guest room was made up for him. It was just as well - the dalish elf wondered if two magisters in the same room might be too much for him to continue to hold his tongue as well as he had.  
  
The tap on the door came almost delicately, but he could feel the power on the other side before it was opened. He stood, Dorian remaining seated beside him, as a blonde woman in a sapphire blue dress styled in classically Tevinter fashion strode in and claimed the entire room with a glance. She looked Mahanon up and down and he felt the back of his neck prickle, then she smiled and it was as if every concern he had was suddenly irrelevant.  
  
“Mahanon Lavellan,” Dorian said, making a lazy gesture to the woman. “Allow me to introduce Magister Maevaris Tilani, my fellow conspirator within the Magisterium.”  
  
“It’s a pleasure, magister.” He bowed, crossing his arm across his chest, and Maevaris shot him a brief look of appreciation for his good manners before her eyes turned onto her countryman.  
  
“I’d been _wondering_ when you were going to get around to introducing me to your devoted lover.” She glanced to Mahanon and in a conspiratorial stage-whisper, added. “I think he believes your visits to be a well-guarded secret.”  
  
“ _Mae_.”  
  
“I have never utilised anything less than the required level of subterfuge,” Mahanon replied glibly, with a wry smile that made Maevaris laugh delightedly, clasping her hands together at the level of her solar plexus.  
  
“Oh, you are a _delight_ , but Dorian, dear, you didn’t invite me here to trade softened barbs with the former leader of the Inquisition.”  
  
“No,” Dorian said, offering Maevaris a seat and moving to a small liquor cabinet, still well stocked with bottles that - Mahanon noted with no small amount of private pride - were slightly dusty. He took a seat and placed the decanter down along with three delicate crystal goblets, pouring an amount into each one no higher than three finger-breadths. Maevaris swept hers up with a graceful motion and sat back, one knee crossed over the other, letting out a pleased hum that gave the impression of a relaxed, pampered cat. Mahanon knew, though, to never mistake Maevaris for anything less than the fiercest red lion.  
  
“We had an… unexpected visitor this morning,” he went on, momentarily pressing his lips together in a thin line.  
  
“Oh?” Maevaris sipped her drink, eyebrows lifting over blue eyes. “How intriguing. You have me hooked, darling, do continue.”  
  
“Fenris,” the elf stated bluntly, watching the female magister’s face closely for any flicker of recognition. He thought he saw something - the slightest dip in her eyelids, a twitch at the corner of her mouth, but her expression was difficult to read. Thankfully, the silence that followed the name was not. Maevaris placed her glass down.  
  
“I intercepted a report this morning,” she said, folding her hands carefully in her lap. “Of a guard patrol found not far from the city limits. All dead, but with no visible signs of mortal wounding.” Her nose crinkled. “Danarius was not shy of using his more interesting experiments as show pieces despite their relationship to him. I am aware of this Fenris’ unique abilities.”  
  
There was a long pause, during which Mahanon glanced up in brief reaction to a soft creak of one of the floorboards in the upper rooms. Maevaris’ eyes glinted.  
  
“He’s still here?”  
  
“He needs our help. And.. we might need yours, good lady. He believes Hawke is in danger, and that it might be a symptom of something greater.”  
  
Maevaris did not answer immediately. She rearranged the folds of her dress over her knee and smoothed the fabric out, huffing out a breath through her nose. Dorian watched without comment and Mahanon followed his lead, and the elf could almost see the cogs ticking around behind the woman’s smooth forehead. Her lips pursed, then she sighed and her shoulders dropped.  
  
“For _anyone_ else, I wouldn’t even think of it,” she said, giving a pointed look to Dorian. The man lifted both eyebrows in response, and one corner of his mouth ticked up. “But for Dorian Pavus, and for the Inquisitor--”  
  
“ _Ex-_ Inquisitor,” Mahanon was quick to point out. She flapped a hand at him.  
  
“Details. Since it’s _you_ , and since you’re so delightful… I will do what I can.”  
  
“ _Thank_ you.”  
  
Dorian finally moved and took the seat beside his lover, reaching out to gently take his hand. A quick smile - warmly returned - was cast his way and Maevaris clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, shaking her head in clear fondness. Mahanon knew that it wouldn’t just be as easy as that. Maevaris couldn’t possibly offer her help to them overtly, though he had no doubt that she would if it were necessary, and it was going to take time to put together a plan…  
  
A large part of that plan would be getting Fenris out of the city without being noticed. Just how he had made it to the house in the first place was still a mystery awaiting examination.  
  
“But,” said the woman, lifting one finger. “Before I do, I have one small favour to ask of you, Mahanon.  
  
“A.. heh, a favour? What could you possibly want from me?”  
  
Maevaris laughed. “A trifle, darling, don’t look so worried! It shouldn’t even take very long.”  
  
* * *  
  
“She calls that a _small_ favour?” the elf said incredulously, the moment he was sure that Maevaris would have moved far enough away from the other side of the front door that she wouldn’t be able to hear him. Dorian was smiling, that roguish smirk around the corners of his lips that Mahanon both loved and hated all at once. He had one hand lifted, his forefinger curled against his mouth but it did absolutely nothing to conceal his delight at the position his lover had been placed in. “Does she _realise_ that I only have one arm?”  
  
“I’m absolutely _certain_ that she does,” Dorian replied, unable to keep from laughing at the way Mahanon lifted his amputated arm and waved it, gesticulating at the stump cut off at the elbow. “She’s not going to let you out of it, you know. If you want her help--”  
  
Grumbling, Mahanon squirmed his way into his coat and allowed Dorian to adjust the shoulders in silence. He met the reflection of the man’s eyes in the mirror in front of them, and frowned. “Is she _always_ like that?”  
  
Dorian thought about it, drawing in a breath and letting it out a few times in an uncharacteristic display of having to think before he spoke. “Maevaris is… eccentric, but _mostly_ harmless if you’re on her good side.”  
  
Scoffing, Mahanon cupped his hand around his elbow. “Harmless, my _ass_. How am I supposed to do this?”  
  
“I imagine in the same way that she intends to, love.” He missed the filthy look that Mahanon shot at him in the process of changing his shirt.  
  
“She’s _ridiculous_ , and so are you. I hate you both.”  
  
The mage was _still_ smiling while he wrapped his arms around Mahanon from behind and rested his chin gently on one of his narrow shoulders. Mahanon pursed his lips and attempted to look cross, but only succeeded in a rather disgruntled expression that Dorian clearly found to be too adorable to keep from kissing. He lifted his hand back and gripped the fabric of Dorian’s shirt, twisting it in his fingers, turning his head to capture the man’s lips with his and linger there for a moment before he realised that being cross with Dorian should not involve kissing him.  
  
“I still hate you,” he grunted, tilting his head away from a kiss pressed behind his ear. “You’re a bad man. And I’m going to need to borrow a sword.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while, if you're following this! Chapters should come a bit quicker now...
> 
> Also sorry that this is mostly filler.


	4. Quartus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t you know it’s rude to keep a lady waiting?”

“Do you ever think about lyrium?”  
  
Mahanon uttered the words as they made their way through the streets of Minrathous, drawing glances from the attempted subtle sideways looks to outright staring. It might have had something to do with the way that Dorian kept his arm snugly around the elf’s side. It _might_ have had something to do with the fact that said elf was, to even the most ill-informed individual, clearly the former Inquisitor. Dorian’s relationship with him was not news - at least, not _new_ news - but it was still juicy enough to be stirred up for idle gossip.  
  
“Not really. Why?” Dorian replied, glancing down at the elf with one slightly raised eyebrow.  
  
“I just think… something feels _wrong_ about mages and templars using it, now.”  
  
The Tevinter magister thought about it. His nose wrinkled. “Ah, yes,” he said. “You mean do I think about the undeniable fact that it’s the _blood_ of some older-than-time elder-creature living underneath the earth that could one day rise up and destroy us all?”  
  
By his side, Mahanon smiled discreetly. “Yes.”  
  
“... No. No, I don’t think about that at all.”  
  
Dorian looked up as they walked, and Mahanon followed the way his eyes traced the facades of the buildings they passed. All of them could be a hundred years old or more, the mage had been eager to tell him the first time they had passed through this street (or was it another?) - Minrathous was a tapestry of ages, rich in history and secure in its cultural pride in many respects. Mahanon had come to… _appreciate_ the place, even if he had always told Dorian he could never feel truly comfortable there.  
  
“You know,” said Dorian, after a few minutes of companionable silence. “Maevaris isn’t going to think any less of you if you turn her down.”  
  
“What happened to ‘she won’t let you get out of this’?” Mahanon lifted both eyebrows. The topic of whether or not Maevaris was actually serious had been a heated one the night before, with Dorian finding the entire arrangement far too funny to keep from laughing at it. His mirth had _not_ been appreciated. “Or was that only to further your poor attempts at humour?”  
  
“Now, now. Don’t sulk.” There was a protest, but Dorian talked over it. “She’s not a _dragon_ , amatus. If you’re not physically _capable_ , she can hardly expect you to duel her.”  
  
“You--!” He knew what was going on here, and what was worse, he knew that it was working. Dorian was appealing to his pride, and he felt it bristling at the insinuation that even with one arm he still wouldn’t be a match for the other magister. “... You’re awful.”  
  
The laugh that bubbled up from his lover’s chest in response was joyous and genuine and exactly the kind of laugh that always made Mahanon weak at the knees. He punched the man ineffectually in the side and snorted when he nudged him in return.  
  
Maevaris had instructed them to meet her in an open courtyard which she had completely cleared of people save for one young man stood straight-backed with a slim sword held across his hands. The magister herself was reclined on a chair, one shoe hanging daintily off her foot, and though her entire demeanour spoke of one who had barely seen the sun rise and was already terribly _bored_ , she visibly brightened the moment that Mahanon and Dorian came into view.  
  
“Don’t you know it’s rude to keep a lady waiting?” she asked as they approached. Dorian chuckled, taking her hand and bowing over it to press a kiss to her knuckles. She maintained a suitably coy expression while he did, and Mahanon pursed his lips in amusement, crossing his hand over his chest and gripping his upper arm.  
  
* * *    
  
The sword weighed heavy in his hand. It was more than he was used to, being far more comfortable with nothing more than the length of a dagger, and he hefted the hilt gently in his palm as he turned from the weapons rack. Dorian caught his eye and smiled, one shoulder lifting in an elegant shrug before he moved to take Maevaris’ vacated spot. The woman took her own sword, checking the balance, and headed to the centre of the courtyard with the former Inquisitor in tow.  
  
“My father insisted, as a child, that I learned how to handle a sword,” she said conversationally. They took their positions and she smiled at him only once before they began. He should have known better to assume that such a formidable woman as Maevaris would not have more combat skills than only magic at her disposal. “It has been a while, so you’ll go easy on me, won’t you?”  
  
“I wouldn’t wish to insult you, my lady,” Mahanon replied, his eyes flashing at the first ring of steel. They moved back and forth across the courtyard in a delicate blend of lunges and parries, their blades glancing off each other in a way that made the elf sure that Maevaris was deliberately going easy on him.  
  
“How is your guest doing?”  
  
“My guest?” Distracted, he missed a chance to block, and the flat of the magister’s blade smacked against the back of his knuckles. He hissed, backing up several paces, and looked up to find laughter in her eyes. “Ah, you mean--”  
  
“Fenris, darling. His entrance into the city was hardly quiet, but no one knows where he is.. Yet.”  
  
“No one but us,” said the rogue, lifting both brows and taking a careful half-circle around her as she remained in place, watching him, the tip of her blade following his movement. She bowed her head and chuckled in the wake of another graceful flurry of blows.  
  
“No one but us. Don’t worry, I don’t intend to betray your confidence. In fact--”  
  
A quick motion had Mahanon’s sword flying from his hand, landing several feet away on the intricate tiles of the courtyard. The elf’s eyes flashed to her and she lifted her shoulders in a graceful shrug, then laughed. In the corner of his eye, he could see Dorian hiding a smile behind his hand.  
  
“In fact, I intend to make it as easy for you to leave with him as possible.” She indicated for him to retrieve his sword, and he kept one eye on her as he ventured to do so. “And to give you any help that you require.”  
  
“So easily?” he asked, and she shot him a wicked smile. “You never intended to refuse at all.”  
  
At that, Maevaris lowered her blade and smiled coquettishly, and behind him, Mahanon heard Dorian start to laugh. He couldn’t bring himself to be angry in the slightest - for all that it was entirely unnecessary, it had been an… interesting morning. He gave the woman another half hour of playful blows and parries, before she finally lifted a hand to draw the sparring to a halt.  
  
They sat down and sipped a fruity, tart wine that the elf couldn’t decide if he found enjoyable or not, and over the following hour, while the sun chased the shadows of the buildings across the courtyard, they laid out their plan. It would not be as easy to get all three of them out of the city as it had been for the two elves to enter separately, but if anyone could get it done, it would be Maevaris Tilani.  
  
“After you leave, you may not hear from me for a time,” she said, frowning thoughtfully into her wine glass. “My position is more tenuous than I would have most believe, and those who oppose the Lucerni would turn any small scandal into an unavoidable outrage.”  
  
Dorian shook his head. “Don’t worry, Mae. You’ll get word to us when you can.”  
  
Maevaris smiled gently at him, and leaned forwards to lightly take his face in both of her hands. Mahanon watched the display with undisguised amusement as what he would dare call a blush rose to his lover’s cheeks before the woman’s hands were batted gently away. Instead, she chose to take Mahanon’s hand and squeeze it between both of hers, fixing her eyes on his.  
  
“You’ll look after the dear orchid, won’t you?”  
  
“I’m _right here_ ,” the orchid in question said, a scowl drawing his eyebrows down. “And I really don’t know why you think _I’ll_ be the one who needs looking after.”  
  
Maevaris only smiled again.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! It's been a while, hasn't it! Sorry to anyone who has been waiting for this story to update - I've had a few upheavals in life recently and it's made it hard to get any writing done.
> 
> But! It should get much better from now on. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how long this will be (it has been so long since I last wrote a multi-chapter fic), but I hope to finish it!


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